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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815225">All You Have Is Your Fire [and the ticking of the clock]</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/pseuds/alyyks'>alyyks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Mentioned Allura (Voltron), Mentioned Coran (Voltron), Mentioned Lance (Voltron), Panic Attacks, Replicant Shiro (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron)-centric, sparing as a way to ignore thoughts and emotions, vague Blade Runner and replicants references</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:28:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/pseuds/alyyks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Shiro’s hand did not hurt. That was what he kept telling himself, as he repeated the circular motion he had done for months, the one that would activate his cuff and shock the muscles from hand to elbow into behaving. His hand did not hurt, it was just psychosomatic, a movement he had done so often it had become a tic, a soothing gesture. He did not even have an organic hand to hurt and ache on that side anymore.</p>
<p>His hand did not hurt anymore and still the unseen, unheard ticking clock of planned obsolescence followed him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>All You Have Is Your Fire [and the ticking of the clock]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A million thanks to beta and partner in crime extraordinaire antonomasia09, who saw the start of this and helped most enthusiastically to make it worse for Shiro and better for the readers.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Shiro’s hand did not hurt. That was what he kept telling himself, as he repeated the circular motion he had done for months, the one that would activate his cuff and shock the muscles from hand to elbow into behaving. His hand did not hurt, it was just psychosomatic, a movement he had done so often it had become a tic, a soothing gesture. He did not even have an organic hand to hurt and ache on that side anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand did not hurt anymore and still the unseen, unheard ticking clock of planned obsolescence followed him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twist and rotate. Twist and rotate. He was on his own, in the middle of the arbitrarily-decided “night,” on the bridge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Space, from within it, was unbearably beautiful. From the bridge of an alien spaceship…here he was, a small step out of the elevator for Shiro, and a giant leap for humanity. Shiro closed his eyes, lips stretching on a joyless smile. For a given understanding of humanity. For a group of cadets and a desert child and a replicant who still hid from everyone, including from himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro was more free than any of his kind had ever been, and it all hinged on aliens not understanding human-baseline, and hiding that he had been made, not born, from the ones who had come from the same planet as him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance, Hunk, Pidge, Keith— had they graduated, among officers it was an open secret that replicants constituted a good third of the Garrison. They were, after all, made to replace humans where human lives were too precious to be wasted: test pilots, early Mars colonists, deep space crews. After World War III, humanity had looked to the stars and had calculated the price in human lives. It had been decided it was too high, too much, for a planet carved to the bone. They had needed more than robots, and the replicant programs aborted decades ago had been resurrected, reintroducing planned obsolescence, set paths, human-like beings stuck in an in-between place wondering why they couldn’t be human, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro had still loved the stars more than anything in the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had loved people, too, fallen in love with a human even. This far from WWIII, the public believed replicants to be relics of times past, to be dead and gone. It was easy, in a sense, to pretend to be human. It was less easy to love, and to be honest, and to be measured, and to be found wanting. Shiro wasn’t human, not entirely; a little stronger, more resilient, had come into being fully-formed at something close to 25 years of age and with a clock counting down, down, down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand did not hurt, much like his heart did not, much like his head did not, faced with space and events larger than any human, than any replicant had ever faced.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stars, beyond the viewport, shone unrelentingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doors behind him opened with a soft sigh of displaced air. The quiet footsteps that followed were quickly identified: Pidge. Shiro turned his head, just enough to see her from the corner of his eye. In the middle of the decided night-time, seeing her up and doing her own thing wasn’t unsurprising. She seemed to need as little sleep as he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t turn the light on any brighter than it was, though it would barely be enough to see for a non-augmented human. The Castle was locked in orbit with a dual planet system, their triple parent stars so far away they were indistinguishable from the pinprick shine of other suns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pidge,” Shiro acknowledged, when it was clear Pidge would not say anything. She stopped at the seat at the right of the main console where Allura usually stood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t answer right away. When she spoke, it came as a total surprise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I read your file, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro blinked, turned away from the stars to face her. She was standing straight, her glasses reflecting the glare of the computer set in the seat; it made her hard to read.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I expect many people did, after Kerberos.” He had a human file. Iverson had shown it to him, a couple—no, several years back, now. It was perfectly ordinary: a fake date of birth, a quiet childhood on a Japanese island where no-one was going to look for him past the language barrier, high school in the Republic of California, Garrison Academy records, lunar posting, all accompanied by fabricated memories from which he could take nicely packaged stories that made him look approachable and reserved at the same time. After that point, it was all real—real missions, real recommendations, the first time Adam’s name showed up. Kerberos would be the last entry, along with Sam and Matt’s names.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not that one,” she said. Shiro felt himself lock in place without the means or ability to move. “The other one,” she added, somewhat unnecessarily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had felt like that, in the arena, the first few times. Too many sensory inputs, too little time, too much pressure, fight or flight warring for dominance, when he ended staying in one place until almost too late.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Replicants don’t make mistakes. Certainly not anything that could be called pilot error. That’s when I knew for sure something had happened,” Pidge said, from very far.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twist. Rotate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then that info also confirmed how many replicants there were at the Garrison and how many are staffing the outposts. The adaptation to radiation and deep space psychology is just fascinating!” She continued. “But it still left open the question of whether my father and Matt knew.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro couldn’t look away. Wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Wasn’t sure the implied question had been for him. Hiding was second nature, a reflex, a—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why would you care, the mission first, isn’t that what you are programmed for?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shuddered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t tell the others,” he blurted out over Pidge’s words, the ones he hadn’t heard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She frowned. “We’re not at the Garrison, we don’t need to wait to graduate to know replicants still exist. That’s stupid by the way, why do we have to wait that long?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Katie, <em>you can’t</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twist and rotate and it felt like his insides were twisting at the same time, no release to be found. He needed to keep what he was to himself and no other—so that his motives, actions, emotions would never be scrutinized, held up to the light and found wanting for having been created artificially the way it had happened his last year on Earth. The way it had happened with Adam. The way it had happened with the Board and Admiral Sanda, because his right arm was defective without the cuff, because he was a replicant and they were human.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last thing he wanted was for them to look at him—for Keith to look at him—and see a <em>skin-job</em>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I ended up telling everyone I was a girl and that Matt and Commander Holt were my family. I thought we weren’t supposed to have those kinds of secrets between us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t,” he barked. His fight or flight reflex had chosen: it would be a fight of a sort. The bark, that tone, that voice, every cadet was drilled into responding to it from day one. It was the last resort, the sound that cut through failing engines, falling mobility units, crashes, the sound that forced one to remember their breathing and their training, the sound that saved lives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It made Pidge jerk up, her spine straightening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t,” he repeated for the third time, distantly hoping she’d hear it, that it’d go through this time. He wasn’t sure he could still feel his lips. “We keep our existence on a need to know basis for good reasons, and none of them are because replicants make fun of humans for not knowing who’s what. The vast majority of the public doesn’t know replicants still exist.” He swallowed. It was hard to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not on Earth! Who would care here if you were made instead of born? Most of the universe is weird as shit and doesn’t give a fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I care. So I’m asking you,” twist, rotate, “please keep it to yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For now, right?” She kept needling. Shiro needed—he needed out of this conversation. He needed the last ten minutes to not have happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For now,” he nodded, felt his head nod like being jerked by the strings of a puppet-master, out of his control. Just enough for her to stop.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t answer my question, you know.” She moved her head, and the lights on her glasses moved with it. “Did my father and brother know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was one answer, so many things to explain, her voice coming from too far. “Yes,” he said. To Commander Holt and Matt, it had made no difference.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pidge left. Shiro only paid attention to her moving the same way he had paid attention to beings moving in the arena, in the general cells, because you could never tell where and when an attack could come from.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt like he could move, now, but that any move would be a downward one. His heart hammered under his ribs, reality and physicality re-assessing themselves in a rush, too much at once. He stumbled back, heels tapping the other seat by the console, legs folding under him, shaking. He just needed a minute. One minute, while the stars shone on, while the universe kept going. He pressed his forehead against his knees, hands clamped to his mouth, keeping the whine and sob that threatened to escape in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How can you tell me you care, that your emotions are real? You’re a copy of human!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Intellectually, Shiro knew this was, had been, a panic attack. Emotionally, for all he didn’t want to think about emotions in that context unless he wanted to trigger another attack, it did not make breathing and coming back to his baseline any easier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thinking about his baseline made him laugh: a dark, broken thing that fell through his lips. Any baseline test he took now, yesterday, the month before when he was either fighting for his life or being cut open and apart—time slipped and slid through his fingers, the scariest effect of his captivity, his brain, the thing he was built around struggling and failing to follow—would return the worst results seen since the Third World War, the kind of instability that demanded immediate retiring. For all he wasn’t one of the earlier gen in whom real emotions and feelings had been squashed out and carefully programmed into a template, Shiro didn’t know how to deal with what he felt: deal with a year gone, with not knowing where Sam and Matt were, with Voltron and the enormity of the task on their shoulders, with hiding still, always, so that the painful truths of a past that seemed like it belonged to another being would not catch up to him again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Orders and leading and flying, now that was much more straightforward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised his head. The stars were still there, would always be there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knocked the side of his hand on the floor trying once again to twist and rotate, to feel the absent bracer jolt his arm. He knocked it and the sound was of metal against metal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro breathed. He still felt jittery, not quite settled in his skin. He let his hands pass through his hair, cupping the back of his head, the length of his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He got up cautiously after a while. He wasn’t sure what time it was now—time slipping and sliding again, always—but it was far too late and too early at the same time for any of the others to still be up and roaming. He found himself thinking how to avoid Pidge, who had probably returned to her room or to the hangar bay of the Green Lion. He didn’t want to return to his room, which he used only to store his armor or the clothes Keith had given him. He didn’t sleep there, in that box with only one entry point, preferring the kitchen, the hangar bay of the Black Lion and its strange but familiar presence at the back of his mind, any room with two doors and a vent easily accessible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned to the unblinking stars one last time before leaving the bridge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kitchen, he decided. He didn’t want to sleep, wouldn’t be able to, and didn’t really need to that night at least. Two more nights and it would become a problem, but he would cross that bridge if he got there. To its advantage, the kitchen had several exit points, water, and the means to heat it up. It was a way to pass the time. While he had access to the Castle’s extensive database and Pidge’s translation program, he couldn’t trust himself to be able to focus on anything more complicated than the bottom of a mug of something hot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He caught himself every time he started to twist and rotate his hand, on the way there. He caught himself thinking about time, time borrowed and time lost and how much time was left on his clock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith had told him it had been about a year since the Kerberos mission was lost. For all the glaring holes in his memories, externally induced or his mind folding in to protect itself, it had felt longer for Shiro. He felt like he had spent years in space when only one year had passed on Earth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had no idea how much time he had left, how many years, months, days still remained of his pre-programmed life-expectancy. No idea how much longer he could fly the Black Lion, make a difference, lead the team and teach them as much as he possibly could. No idea if he would ever see Matt, Commander Holt, or Earth again. No idea if he had the time to coach Keith into stepping into his place when the time came.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was so absorbed by his thoughts, the panic still clinging to him, that despite noticing that the lights were on in the kitchen he did not immediately notice that Hunk was present.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!” Hunk said. He had several boxes open in front of him, as well as a spread of large bowls. From the state of things, whatever he was doing was just starting. “Hey Shiro, sorry for the mess, I know you like to sleep here, I’ll just—“ He started picking and stacking the bowls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hunk, it’s ok, I’m not going to sleep,” and that was something to think about later, that Hunk knew and cared and was willing to accommodate Shiro’s strange sleeping habits, “Don’t stop on my account. I was only here for hot water.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure? I mean, it’s no problem, I haven’t even started measuring anything, I can put everything back in place and leave you to rest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” Shiro forced a smile. “Thank you.” He took the few steps needed to reach the counter that held the “space kettle” as Lance had named it, checked there was enough water for a cup or more in it, switched it on. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk waited another few moments, as if making sure Shiro was really only there for the hot water and that he wasn't merely being polite when he said he wasn't here to sleep, before spreading the bowls on the counter in front of him once more. “Attempting to make bread. Coran assured me this,” he raised a small packet of something, “was yeast, but if it’s ten thousand years old space yeast, even having stayed in the food stasis, it’s going to take some trial and error to figure out how it works. Plus I have no idea about the gluten content or lack thereof of any of those flours. So I’m going to attempt all combinations, if only to have a starting point in the whole process.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro had never wondered about the mechanics of making bread, but this seemed like a lot of work. He turned to the space kettle as the indicator that showed when the water had reached the desired temperature glowed. “That sounds like a lot of work. Any reason you are doing this in the middle of the night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had the time to take one of the cups—not quite the size of mugs and more spread out, the weight just slightly off—wave another at Hunk who shook his head, and fill the cup with water and a pinch of the off-white powder that gave off a taste like day-old coffee and popcorn that the Arusians had given them, before Hunk answered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I woke up and I couldn’t sleep anymore, I guess. Instead of tossing and turning, I decided to give this a try. Also I really miss peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and in the absence of all those ingredients, might as well start somewhere. And baking is applied chemistry, and it’s thought consuming and a process that goes from one state to another with many others in between one has to keep an eye on and I need to have something to do that can, like, end.” And because Hunk was Hunk, more observant than he gave himself credit for, and more empathetic than many people Shiro had met, he asked: “I’d guess it’s the same for you, except you haven’t tried to sleep yet, have you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro took a sip of his beverage, on the side of far too hot to be drunk. “I don’t sleep that much, it’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk weighted something into something, made a face at the open package he had called yeast earlier, measured water. “I know we’re not… I mean, the Garrison is not a military organization and everything but you’re kinda our commanding officer and at the same time we mind-fuse every time we form Voltron so there’s no way we can really keep those differences and all and. With that said and with all due respect, I kinda want to call bullshit on you saying you’re fine,” he said, so very casually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro blinked. “Oh?” He kept leaning against the counter, open, mug in his left hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk turned to Shiro. “Your hand.” He pointed to Shiro’s right hand. “You’ve kept moving it like you’re trying to make the articulation pop, and you only do that when something’s off with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twist and rotate. Shiro froze the movement, looked down, unaware he had been doing it still. “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything ok with your arm? Does it hurt? Pidge and me can take a look at it anytime, you know that, right?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s… fine, thank you Hunk.” Shiro really was touched by the obvious care Hunk was showing. It was just too close, too real. “I just… sometimes I forget it’s not organic anymore.” And this was skirting near territories he had no interest in re-opening or revisiting tonight. Hunk, at least, knew when to stop pushing. He nodded and went back to his bowls, muttering arcane swears at their contents.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a while of watching him, Shiro remembered he had a mug in hand, and went to sip at it. It was cold. So he repeated the process, wait for the water, put hot water in mug, wordlessly ask Hunk if he wanted any—no, once more—take a sip, rinse, repeat. He chose to go sit with his back to the wall, this time around, to the table-like contraption Coran and Lance had dragged in at Hunk’s request. It reminded Shiro of a picnic table, the kind they still had in some parks on Earth, with the benches attached to the legs of the table itself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aware of Hunk’s scrutiny, he forced himself not to twist and rotate his wrist when he caught himself doing it. It was a dangerous habit to develop, after all, an all-too-obvious tell. He tried to do his best to not fixate on his thoughts, letting them pass through him like clouds passing across the sky, tried to breath through the last clinging tendrils of the panic attack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk joined him much later at the table with two mugs, one he put in front of Shiro, the other he kept. Shiro raised his head, and Hunk anticipated his question: “The flour mixtures are rising, at different temperatures. The yeast took a bit to start, but it looks like it was still alive.” He drank from his mug, put it back on the table. “If you had told me a year ago that I’d be in deep space trying to make bread out of ingredients not found on Earth, well.” He took a breath. “Our lives are a little bit nuts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro smiled involuntarily at that. “Yeah, that they are.” He turned the new mug in his hands. “It’s not a bad thing to take a step back and reassess the situation every so often.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a bit bad when looking at the whole picture makes you freeze in panic,” Hunk told his mug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro suspected that this was why Hunk was awake and baking in the middle of the night. Back at the Garrison, when Shiro couldn’t, or wouldn’t, sleep, he had snuck out to the flight simulators, to the hovers and the desert. Sex, as a physical connection, had worked too, up to a point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re a copy of human!</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro twitched at the unwelcome memory, wrapped both hands around his mug.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doubted Hunk had missed it, braced himself for a question. It didn’t arrive. Instead, the next question took him by surprise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know anything about baking bread?” Hunk asked, looking at anything but directly at Shiro, giving him as much privacy as one could when sitting face to face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro looked up, blinked. “I know about eating it,” he offered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk smiled. “Do you want to learn more about what happens before that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro didn’t see why not—he was not a good cook, as it had never been either a primary goal or interest of his and he didn’t need more than the Garrison rations, but this was not about being good at something. It was learning, and sharing, and distraction. And it was such a naked display of Hunk’s kindness that it was enough to squash the little voice that had been running amok in his head all evening until it was nothing more than an indistinct murmur in the background noise of his thoughts. “Yeah,” Shiro said, “okay.” He finished his mug. “But I have to warn you, I’m pretty hopeless at making food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk raised an eyebrow. “How hopeless are we talking about there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can make instant noodles and that’s about it.” Hunk looked vaguely horrified, in a rather amusing way, so Shiro continued: “I’ve rarely eaten anything that was not Garrison food or mission rations.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But, but,” Hunk said, and Shiro smiled—it was a little mean to find Hunk’s dismay so amusing, but it was proving to be a great distraction from all the other thoughts in Shiro’s head…up to a point: “Surely you had home cooked meals as a kid, right?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro very deliberately kept his smile up, feeling like his breath had frozen inside his lungs. It was too close from what he had just managed to stop thinking about, too soon. “That wasn’t in the cards,” he heard himself speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk said something, then looked apologetic, and said something else. Shiro couldn’t seem to hear him right—or be able to focus on his words. Warm wetness on his hands shocked him out of it. He stared at the table, the full mug he had forgotten he was still holding as he had tried to twist and rotate his wrist again, the warm drink splashed all over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it okay if—?” Hunk was there, suddenly closer, something that they used as a towel in hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro scooted back, leaving him access to the table. Hunk looked pained and Shiro could not understand why. Shiro did not react when Hunk, instead of cleaning the mess Shiro had made of the table like Shiro had expected, took Shiro’s metal hand and wiped the liquid off from it, and then his flesh hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Hunk was saying, and Shiro just could not understand why. Maybe he should have tried to sleep, maybe this was just another proof he really was defective and a poor substitute for a human.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Shiro heard himself say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk kept his hands on Shiro and Shiro—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shiro, hey, hey…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro closed his eyes. Took in a deep breath. He could feel the warmth of Hunk’s hands in both of his. Could hear the faintest noise the ventilation made. He could feel his lips again. When had he stopped?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He twisted his wrist, and felt nothing but Hunk’s hand on his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Shiro said, after a long while. He had no idea how long they had stayed like this, Hunk crouching in front of him, him… not completely there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I should be the one apologizing, you… tell me if i’m pushing, but do you know what triggered you?” Hunk twisted his hands in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro didn’t look up, couldn’t find the energy to be Shiro-Black-Paladin, to be Shiro-Takashi-Shirogane-the-instructor-and-pilot, not quite sure what was left after those were gone. “It’s been a rough night,” he finally said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk didn’t push, didn’t ask more. But he was there, present, not quite quiet but focused on his bread experiments. Once in a while, he brought Shiro a new, warm mug, that Shiro wrapped his hands around and didn’t drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro still didn’t sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The quality of the sounds around them changed, at some point, as if the Castle was waking up. Hunk made a sound, looked up from the oven. By then, he had things that looked like bread in front of him, in various shapes and degrees of puffiness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like it’s morning.” He turned toward Shiro. “Will we see you in the training room?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro blinked. He felt somewhat steadier. He hadn’t slept, but it almost felt like he had, at least, rested. “Yes,” he said. “After breakfast and checking with Allura that we didn’t get any communication during the night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gotcha.” Hunk took the bread out, then stretched, his back creaking. “See you at breakfast. If you try any of the bread before, let me know how it tastes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will. And… thanks, Hunk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hunk looked at him, really looked. “Anytime. And my door is open anytime you need company, or someone to take watch if you sleep. I mean it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro wasn’t sure what Hunk was seeing. “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was still early enough when Shiro left the kitchen that he met no-one in the corridors. He debated for a second changing his undershirt and checking in with Allura before breakfast, and then decided not to, instead going straight to the training room before anyone could get there. He could change after; physical effort and a shower would help reset his thoughts back to… no, there was no going back to normal, but he could hope for something closer to baseline, enough to get through the day and be the Shiro-Black-Paladin the others expected.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had been bad enough that both Pidge and Hunk had seen through him, if different things for different reasons. He knew that neither would share what they had learned and seen, but for his own peace of mind, Shiro wanted to appear normal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fake it ’til you make it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckled at the thought as he crossed the threshold of the training room. It was already occupied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith was there, fighting against one of the bots, both with blades. Keith only gave him a nod after a particularly brutal parry. Shiro answered it, and stood on the side to watch, absent-mindedly stretching. Keith was getting better with his bayard, but still too wasteful with movements and energy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At a pause in the spar, Shiro called out. “Want to spar against me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith called for a stop of the bot, stepped back. “Bayard against your arm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Shiro shook his head and opened a panel—Coran had shown those to him only a few days ago. There were several types of training weapons and other elements that could be tossed in the middle of the room to create obstacles or improvised targets. Shiro took something that looked similar to Keith’s sword. “Sword to sword.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith smiled. “You’re on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They started simple, touches and parries and the few moves from actual sword fighting forms Shiro somehow knew and had taught Keith, as well as what Keith knew from knife fighting, adapted through trial and error to the much longer blade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Faster,” Shiro called, and they chased each other from one end of the room to the other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Faster,” Keith called, teeth bared, after the third loop of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Midway through a fourth or fifth loop, at one lock, with neither willing to break it and both pushing their full body weights behind it, Shiro grinned. “Ready?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith looked alarmed before the alarm became surprise and determination, as Shiro broke the lock by dunking and kicking low to destabilize Keith and take him down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith didn’t go down but growled indistinctly and jumped back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From there, it devolved. Faster, stronger, Keith could meet him blow for blow, dirty move to dirty move. One kick sent Shiro back, and he jumped back once more to catch his breath back and avoid the blow that Keith had followed with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Getting tired, old man?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In your dreams,” Shiro replied, and went right back to the fight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was exactly what he needed, all thoughts gone but for the sword as an extension of his arm, for the next move, the next parry, the next touch; chasing Keith up and down the room using all his speed and strength and Keith keeping up, even getting faster.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro started to flag. It was minor at first: not ducking fast enough, taking a blow when he had seen it coming, not <em>moving</em> fast enough. The kick to his stomach, he barely deflected on the flat of his sword in time, but even taking it with both hands, it sent him flying several meters back. Keith followed right on, and Shiro barely had the time to roll to the side to avoid his blade. He could only keep his sword up as a shield, the blow coming in too fast to parry and answer with any other attack, to move away— and then, finally, it was over, Keith sending Shiro’s blade clattering on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro breathed hard, head thrown back. He knew that if he moved, Keith’s blade would be right at his throat. He could feel the heavy drag of his body, the blows and nicks where he had been caught; he was, for the first time in hours, maybe even days, wholly grounded, completely present.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You lost,” he heard Keith say from somewhere above.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro opened his eyes, smiled. “You won,” he replied, and Keith looked surprised. Shiro had pushed him as far as a human could go and further and Keith had kept up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One day, Shiro would not be able to keep up anymore, and that day loomed ever closer. Knowing that Keith could and would keep up, even against things and people who weren’t human, brought him a not inconsiderable amount of relief.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith took his blade away, and held out his hand. Shiro took it, and got up from the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What was that?” The cry came from the entrance to the room, and both of them turned to face it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone save for Coran was there. Lance was in front, one hand up and his helmet under the other arm. “Don’t try to tell me that was training, neither of you needed to go that hard.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro stretched, and by his side, Keith was doing the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to agree,” Allura said, her arms crossed. “Several of those blows will be hampering you for several days. We cannot afford to have anyone incapacitated due to the actions of our own allies and teammates.” Shiro could feel the blows she was talking about but they felt good, they felt like clear limits, ones that would be gone in a few days. Allura’s expression on the other hand did not herald anything good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was just sparring,” Keith said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sparring? <em>Shiro</em>’s bleeding!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro blinked and passed his hand on his face, feeling for the points of tenderness. And there it was, his lips nicked by his teeth. One of Keith’s blows had caught him at the corner of the mouth and he hadn’t even felt it. He smiled. He hadn’t held back any of his strength at the end and Keith had more than held his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good one,” he told Keith.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance made a spluttering sound. Pidge looked at them, her expression skeptical.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope you’re not expecting us to fight like that. I don’t think some of those—“ her eyes narrowed as she stopped speaking, sharp gaze going from Keith to Shiro and back. In light of what she had told Shiro the previous night, Shiro didn’t like that look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would be a load off my mind if you could, honestly,” Shiro admitted. Behind Allura, Lance, and Pidge, Hunk was standing with his helmet held in both hands and looking at Shiro both sad and worried. Shiro looked away, back to Allura who still looked annoyed. “I am fine, Princess, and I am sorry to cause you to worry, but I’ve always healed quick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was starting to feel the night, the sleepless hours, the intense few hours he had just spent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It would reassure me if you and Keith were not part of the combat training this morning. But perhaps some team bonding and understanding of physical limits would not be amiss.” Allura did disapproving better than any officers at the Garrison.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith started bristling, but Shiro clapped his metal hand on his shoulder and Keith stopped immediately. “We will join you for team training,” Shiro said for the both of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lance was still trying to string words to express his disbelief at Hunk when Shiro and Keith left the training salle, and Shiro felt Pidge eyes on them until the door closed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro dragged Keith to the nearest shower room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why did you—“ Keith stopped, breathed, pulled his suit away from him. Shiro, sitting on the bench in front of the second shower stall in the room that could have held all the Paladins five times over, took off his boots, zipped off his vest, waited.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith started over. “They used to call me skin-job, at the Garrison.” One could have heard a pin drop in the room. “I was too weird, too unemotional, too fast, so I had to not be human. And all they could come up as an insult was that I had to be a replicant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twist. Rotate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You weren’t going easy on me, back there.” That wasn’t a question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” Shiro was looking at the floor between his feet. “It was all I could do to keep up.” and this, this made him smile, even in the middle of the conversation he was afraid they were having.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not supposed to be able to keep up with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad you do,” Shiro said. Twist, rotate, went his hand. “This way, I know—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare!” Shiro looked up: Keith was right in front of him, eyes blazing. “You are not going anywhere. You are not dy—“ He stopped, teeth clicking on the word. Then, in a rush: “Replicant was never an insult because the best person I knew was a replicant and leagues better than the so-called humans.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith knew. <em>Keith had always known.</em></span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith glanced at him then at the wall, then dropped on the bench, shoulder pressed to Shiro’s.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” was all Shiro could say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith huffed. “Just because I don’t give a shit about people doesn’t mean I’m not observant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro didn’t know how to react. With Pidge, it had been panic. With Keith… it felt like flying, like not having to hide.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twist. Rotate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You only do that when your arm is bothering you,” Keith remarked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro forced himself to stop, to breath, to put a name on what he was feeling. “It used to. Now, it’s… Keith.” and Keith straightened up at that, and Shiro could feel his eyes on him while Shiro could only look at the floor. “I’m glad you can keep up with me. Out there…” Shiro shook his head, shook the arena out of his thoughts, shook the fights and the fear and the certainty of planned obsolescence.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It felt like relief.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not going anywhere,” Keith repeated, knocking his shoulder into Shiro’s once more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know I have a time-limit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith made a sound like a scoff. “Think bigger. We’re in space. We have the healing pods. We have technologically advanced <em>allies</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro held his breath, for an instant. He hadn’t wanted to think about that, hadn’t wanted to raise his hopes for nothing—hadn’t wanted to think what he would do with a human’s life span.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Keith got up, tugged his suit off all the way. “Think about it,” he said. “You got us.” He took one of the towels and went into the bathing area, giving Shiro one last look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shiro looked to the floor, once more. There were no stars to look at, just his boots and the odd streak of Earth dirt still clinging to the laces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had been made on Earth. He wasn’t on Earth, now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had much to think about, but for the first time in years, for the first time since his inception, he knew he wasn’t alone.</span>
</p>
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